Page 20 of Score to Settle
“Does it matter?” He bites off the reply before slamming his phone onto the counter like it’s to blame for the story. “I’ve already had a message from Coach Allen wanting my ass in his office first thing tomorrow. This is our one bye weekend of the season. The one week we don’t have a game. We were all told to rest. This is exactly the kind of story that’s going to ruin my career.”
“Gordon was out too,” I say.
Jake scoffs. “Yeah, funny how there aren’t photos of him.” He grabs his phone. “You’re right, this is bullshit. I’ve been letting people say what they want and letting this rep grow, but I’ve had enough. I’m gonna tell the fans how fucking wrong this is.”
“Maybe you should take a minute first,” I say carefully.
He ignores me and starts to tap the screen, fingers moving with fury and precision, and even though it’s not my business or place to intervene, and even though I don’t care what Jake does, I can’t stop myself from snatching the phone from his hands.
“Hey.” Jake scowls but I stand my ground.I’m doing this one for Mama, I tell myself. And to prove to Jake I can have his back so he’ll let me in.
“Maybe posting something is a good idea,” I say. “Or maybe it’s not. Either way, waiting an hour until you’ve calmed down seems like the safest option.”
“Are you seriously telling me what to do now?” he asks, but the edge has left his voice and his eyes are no longer murderous.
I shrug, realizing what Jake needs in this moment is a distraction. “Did you know my dad is a two-time Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist?”
Jake raises his brows at my change of direction but shakes his head, so I carry on.
“He’s spent his career covering every hard-hitting topic you can imagine from wars in the Middle East to election fraud. He’s the most impressive person you’ll ever meet. He’s always thinking of the next story and where it will take him.
“Can you imagine following in those footsteps? It might not be a stadium full of fans and millions watching on TV, but believe me, I understand the weight of expectation. Ever since high school, people have read my work with an insane level of scrutiny, wanting to know if I’m as good as my dad. So I get it.”
He shakes his head again, jaw tightening. “It’s not the same, Cassidy. I’ve never cared what people think or say about me, but now this kind of made-up bull is going to ruin my career.”
“Can’t you play football for another team?” I ask, remembering what Mama said about players with far worse reputations than Jake playing in the NFL.
He shoots me a look like I’ve slapped him. “If I don’t do something about my reputation, then come the end of the season, I’m gone. They’ll sell me or trade me, and yeah I’ll still be playing football but it won’t be the same. Stormhawks are my team.”
I drink my coffee, allowing the heat to slip down my throat and warm my body.
“What did you do?” he asks then.
“About what?”
“About everyone comparing you to your dad?” Jake’s tone somehow manages to seem both interested and annoyed.
“To start with, I freaked out. I didn’t exactly have a lot of confidence after high school,” I say, fighting to keep the bitter edge from my voice. Because the reason for how much I struggled with my self-belief and making sound decisions after sophomore year and into college and even now is leaning against the counter beside me, drinking a cup of coffee, and he has no idea how much his thoughtless actions affected me.” I take a breath. “By the time I hit my second year of college, I was second-guessing every word and hit a massive block. I was so close to flunking out. So I faked it. I acted like I was the best journalist on that course even if I felt like the worst. It didn’t make me popular but after a while it didn’t feel like pretend anymore. I graduated top of my class.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to stop caring what people think of you?”
I huff a laugh like what he’s suggested is easy. “That’s not me.”
“Yeah, well, it suits me just fine,” he fires back.
“If you didn’t care what people think, you wouldn’t be all kinds of grumpy about this story right now,” I say, waving his phone at him.
He sighs but doesn’t argue. He rubs a hand over his face and when he looks at me again the anger burning in his eyes has fizzled. I find myself wondering how the hell he looks so good when he’s just gotten out of bed. Suddenly I remember I’ve spent the last hour running and I’m a windswept mess in desperate need of a shower.
“You can have this back in an hour, Sullivan.” I back away to the door, tucking his phone in the pocket of my leggings.
I step out the room and swear I can feel the heat of Jake’s eyes follow me down the hall. I shiver—cold from my run, I think. What am I doing? Helping Jake. Telling him about myself. My job might be to knock down Jake’s walls, but I need to keep mine firmly up. I’m the journalist and he’s my assignment.
EIGHT
JAKE
JAKE:Can you get your hands on a swimsuit for later?
